The Parenting Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
by BonnySunshine
Summary: An adventure in which Sherlock and Irene Adler become the parents of two very precocious infants (how they managed to procreate, no one is really sure), and their consequent journey through childhood alongside the slightly less precocious, but equally adorable Watson children. Shenanigans occur, chaos ensues, and fun is had by all. Written with izzybizzy333.
1. The Adventure Begins

Dr. John Watson was bored.

This thought came upon him as he sat in his small examination room, eating his lunch and watching the midday news. A recent bank robbery had sent the media into their usual frenzied panic, trying to convince the all of the retirees, stay-at-home mothers, and anyone else who had the time to watch the telly during the day, that the world was ending and the only way to stave off the apocalypse was to stay tuned. As he watched the baffled Detective Inspector assigned to the job give a halfhearted press conference, spouting all the standard issue police jargon; pursuing suspects, following up on leads, exercise reasonable caution, he wondered about what his old friend, and former flatmate, Sherlock Holmes was up to at the moment.

Although John and Mary had promised Sherlock that they would stay in touch and visit often, and they had sincerely meant it, the arrival of their first child had changed things quite a bit for the Watsons. John had found he really enjoyed fatherhood, and treasured every moment with his son, Henry, and looked forward to the new one on its way, but being a parent took a lot of time and energy, and before he knew it, it had been six months since he had seen Sherlock. The last time John had visited 221B Baker street, Sherlock had been out on a case, and John had been subjected to an hour of Mrs. Hudson's latest news, and of the world renowned detective's many talents, returning calls was not one of them. The last he had seen of his friend was at his son's first birthday party, which he attended only long enough to give his favorite nephew a rattle which he had lifted from the scene of a grisly triple murder he had been working on earlier that day, leaving John to find his son giggling and chewing on a bloodstained piece of evidence.

But even for all his domestic bliss, and his insistence to Mary that he did not "some time with his boyfriend" as she put it; deep down, as time marched on in its steady, everyday pace, John felt more stagnant and ill at ease with each day, and occasionally longed for the days back on Baker Street, where he could drop everything at moments notice to take off on some wild, death defying adventure with the one and only 'consulting detective'.

John was shook from his reverie by a faint knock on the door to the exam room. Quickly putting his food down, he turned to face the door.

"I'm sorry, but I'm on my break right now, but if you'd like to come back...later…"

John's voice faltered, then fell away completely, shocked into silence by the last person he would have expected to show up in his exam room, someone he thought he would never see again.

Irene Adler.

Although undoubtedly her, somehow she seemed changed. Tall and graceful as ever, she wore a perfectly tailored silk dress that framed her buxom figure perfectly, the colour bringing out the feline green of her eyes. Her red hair was in a low ponytail over her shoulder, and under the carefully calculated veneer of makeup she wore, she looked tired. She quietly shut the door and surveyed both the office and it's owner with scorn, a patronizing smirk on her elegant face.

"I must say Doctor, I never had much faith in your talents as a physician, but even I thought you'd do better than this." she drawled slowly, her smiling widening at the obvious shock she had caused her unassuming victim. John simply still there, frozen, sandwich still in hand, completely and utterly stunned the appearance of Irene in HIS doctors office. It what isn't just that he had thought her dead, John never ruled ANYTHING as impossible mean Sherlock was involved, but WHY would Irene come to see him and not Sherlock? John had never been of the slightest interest to the Woman, why should it suddenly change now?

His mouth fell open. Dumb shock was not his usual dish for lunch, but it seemed to be cropping up more and more nowadays. An intercom buzz stirred him.

"John, are you okay? This lady blew right past me. Should I come in there?"

He almost considered letting Mary take care of this, amusing as it would undoubtedly be, but it didn't seem prudent. She was here for something, and must be not at her best to have not noticed the dangerous force that was his wife.

"No, Mary, we'll be fine."

What possible need of him would she have now that he was no longer living with Sherlock? How could she possibly still be alive when he had SEEN her die? Questions swirled through John's mind, most of them containing expletives, and all of them concerning Sherlock.

"Speechless, are we doctor? I do find that to be such an unattractive trait in men." She said, now standing no more than 10 feet from him, examining her nails cooly. Her barb broke John out of his shock, and he replied

"That tends to happen to me when I see the dead come back to life."

"Really? After Sherlock's stunt at St. Barts, I would think you would be used to it by now. " She said laughing; John refrained from joining her, as he got the distinct feeling she was laughing at him, rather than with him.

"Why are you here, Irene?" John said, cutting to the quick. He knew she wouldn't have come if she didn't have a reason, and he didn't enjoy her making fun at his expense. At his words, Irene let out a small sigh and shifted on the table, as if she were uncomfortable.

"I need the expertise of a doctor. I have a certain... medical condition, that I need examined." She said

"Why come to me? I'm sure there are a dozen Doctors more qualified than me in London, and with offices you can step into without sullying your designer dress..." John quipped sarcastically, still suspicious of her motives.

Silence, for a few moments, as John waited for her to speak; when she did, it was in a softer, almost vulnerable voice, her green eyes turned up to him for maximum effect.

"Not anyone that I can trust. I can't risk being recognized as Irene Adler; if any of my friends from my old life saw me, everyone I ever cheated would be hunting me again. I need to stay under the radar." Her beryl eyes looked at him with innocent sadness, every fiber of her being radiating the damsel in distress.

"You didn't actually think that would work, did you?" John said, disbelievingly. He may not be as smart as Sherlock, but she couldn't think him stupid enough to fall for that act again. As soon as he said those words, her facade vanished, and the calculating feline was back. Irene smiled at him, slightly impressed with his deduction, her impression of him rising ever-so slightly.

"Actually yes. Most people fall over themselves trying to help me when I play the damsel in need." she said, blasé in her discussion of manipulation, then continued.

"It was true what I said though, I can't go to any high society doctors for risk of being recognized. I suppose I could go to the black market doctors, but you were preferable because you'll work for free." Irene said, a coy smile on her face.

"I will, will I?" John responded hotly. Of course he would've helped her if she had asked, but he hardly appreciated his help being assumed.

"Yes. You will." She said matter of factly, shrugging her aristocratic shoulders.

"After I tell you what my medical condition is, you will give me anything and everything I need, and you will do it free of charge." She continued calmly, in a voice as soft as silk, staring him straight in the face.

"Why is that?" John said through gritted teeth.

She laughed airily, as if the answer was simple, then gestured to her abdomen.

"Because I'm pregnant, and Sherlock is the father."

"Holy…"


	2. Conversations Are Had

"Shit, Sherlock!" John exclaimed, as he paced in front of the fireplace in a state of frenzied panic. Sherlock sat in his armchair, warming himself by the fire, resining his bow in the perfect picture of unworried ease.

John had spent the rest of his work day in a daze of confusion and worry, questions running through his mind unceasingly, that only Sherlock could answer. _Was Irene telling the truth? If she was, could she be trusted? Did Sherlock know? Did MYCROFT know? Why did this happen? HOW could this happen? _Quickly decided he probably didn't want the answer to that last question, all John was certain about was that Sherlock would PAY if he had told the homeless network before him again.

True to his form, Sherlock had ignored all 20 of John's calls, and increasingly violent texts. Which is why, at 9 in the evening, rather than relaxing at home with his wife and son, he had found himself, once again, in front of Baker street, wrapped up in another one of Sherlock's dramas.

"I don't know why you are reacting so poorly, John. I am simply fulfilling my biological mandate to progenate the human species. After all, do you really expect me to leave the business of solving crimes to the _police_ after I retire? _Someon_e must shoulder the burden of their stupidity." Sherlock drawled, as he played a slow tune on his violin, then shrugged and added

"and besides, Mother has been quite insistent in her demands for grandchildren of late,and she's long since given up on Mycroft to provide them. I suppose the creeping reality of mortality reaches even the simple eventually."

John ceased his pacing just long enough to give his friend a reproachful glare, before returning to his previous state of panic; only the Holmes brothers would refer to one of the world's premier mathematicians as 'simple'.

"Sherlock, this is ridiculous! How can you take care of children when you can barely take care of yourself! Mrs. Hudson has to bring you food to make sure you don't starve yourself for God's sake!" John yelled

"And what about your job, you oblivious arse!? What will you do when you have a case? Bring the pram along to a murder scene?!"

"Of course not John, children are a completely unnecessary distraction on a case, at least, before they can walk that is." Sherlock replied, rolling his eyes at his friend's antics.

"So what? Will Irene be raising your spawn in America, then? Maybe she'll show them how to dismantle a government, or the proper uses for whips too!" John spat sarcastically.

"Nonsense, that's nothing I can't teach them myself! Mrs. Hudson will help, she does so little already. Or perhaps Mycroft." Sherlock said, shrugging.

The thought of two wailing babies in the Diogenes club, while Mycroft tried to feed them humoured John just enough to allow him to slide into the chair opposite Sherlock's; he hadn't been getting enough sleep lately, and he could feel the weariness in his bones. He leaned his head into his hands, and began massaging the migrane out of his temples as he spoke through gritted teeth.

"We both know that Mary and I are going to end up doing the work, Sher. You'll run off on one of your cases, and we'll pick up the slack, because that's what we do. You're even more oblivious than I thought if you think you can become a father without anything changing in your life. In eight and a half months, two babies will be totally dependant on you. Do you realize how selfish it was to make that kind of a decision without thinking it through?"

Shocked and slightly puzzled, Sherlock put down his violin, and met his best friend's eyes seriously for the first time that night.

"Two? Are you certain?"

"Yeah, Sher. I did the sonogram myself, you're having twins." John said sleepily, contented that his words finally seemed to be getting through to the world's thickest consulting detective.

"How did the exam go? You never did tell me." Sherlock said, settling back into his chair the way he always did when he was listening to a client, gathering information and deciding on the best course of action.

And John obliged him, informing him that both babies were healthy and growing normally so far, relating to him with sheepish dread of how he had seen Irene Adler completely nude, once again, even after giving her a gown and explicitly telling her she should keep her undergarments _**on**_, and how Mary had walked in on this awkward exchange to bring them the sonogram jelly (John doubted Irene had any idea of how close she had come to death that day), until finally, they lapsed into their old, comfortable silence that came with years of friendship.

"You do realize what a big responsibility this will be, don't you, Sher? Mary and I will help of course, but we can't do everything, there are going to be things that only you can do, as a parent. Twins are no easy feat either, are you sure you're ready?" John mumbled, dozing off, as Sherlock picked up his violin once more and began playing a slow lullaby.

"Well, you never know. One twin could absorb the other, and then I'd only have to raise one; that's what happened with Mycroft." Sherlock replied, shrugging nonchalantly.

Truly, Sherlock was not worried a bit over the safety of his unborn children, they would be Holmes children after all, and Holmes children were born with a keen sense of self preservation; anyone related to Mycroft would be reduced to a blithering madman instantly without it. And besides, what a fabulous experiment this would make! To be given two blank slates, to raise and educate without all the frippery and needless trivia he and Mycroft had been forced to endure, to be able to share his work and passion with those smart enough to fully understand it. He would teach them everything he knew, and they would join him in his world, and perhaps, for the first time since John had left, he would no longer feel so alone anymore.


	3. And So It Begins

****8 ½ Months Later****

**Christmas is a time of joy, love, and peace; that is, if you're ****_not _****the best friend of a sociopathic consulting detective who knocked up a former dominatrix. In that case, Christmas means chasing the aforementioned detective through London in a desperate bid to find him before a group of trained assassins do. **

**The day had begun very normally for the Watson family; Henry, at two, had an enthusiastic love of all things Christmas, waking them up at the very crack of dawn to open his presents, while Mary showed the newborn James how to clean the gun she had received as her gift.**

**They had, of course, invited Sherlock to the festivities, but he had declined, just like the two years before, stating that the best gift he could receive was ****_not _****having to participate in a manufactured holiday glorifying an obese housebreaker, or perhaps an interesting murder.**

**John would have invited Irene as well, out of love for his friend and support for the family they were starting; but outside of the regularly scheduled doctors visits, most of which were spent trying to explain why bondage did indeed count as extraneous physical labour, he hadn't seen her at all. When this thing had started, John hadn't expected it to be normal; marriage had always been out of the question where Sherlock was concerned, but he had expected them to at least live in the same city or visit regularly now that they were about to become parents.**

**On the single occasion he had asked Sherlock about it, he had replied with his customary snarkiness, showing him the woman's latest stream of flirty text, asking why he should know one woman's location in all of Christendom when there were so many other interesting things going on.**

**"****Oh, I don't know, Sherlock, maybe because she's pregnant. With ****_your _****children. And you haven't even discussed how you plan to co-parent across the ****_Atlantic Ocean_****."**

**"****They'll be staying with me, ****_obviously_****. The Woman's travels keep her far too busy to raise children," Sherlock had said, scoffing at John's ignorance of the situation.**

**"****Don't do that, Sherlock. Don't give me nothing, and expect me understand the entire situation in one glance, you know I can't do that," John said fiercely. **

**Their conversation had ended there, Sherlock had been stubborn, John had been defensive, and he had left Baker Street in angry silence. ******(******They hadn't spoken since, Sherlock had been wrapped up in his interesting new case, the four people found in the Thames killed in identical manners, with no discernible connections to one another whatsoever, and John had been hurriedly preparing for Christmas the next week.******)****

**Christmas morning had dawned clear and bright, with just enough snow on the ground for snowmen, and just warm enough to make it pleasant to be outside. John had taken little Henry to try out his first tricycle that he had just found under the tree, and John thought to himself that the day was shaping up to be rather perfect.**

**That was his first mistake…**

**John's phone rang for the first time during breakfast; he had quickly ignored the unknown caller and went back to his family. On the fifth call from the same number, John finally answered irately.**

**"****Someone had better be dead," he snapped.**

**"****Sherlock Holmes will be if you don't find him… ****_now_****." The voice on the phone was unmistakably Irene's, but she sounded unlike John had ever heard. Gone was the cool, calm facade she she always maintained, designed to keep one constantly guessing as to her objective and emotions; this was Irene at her core, even panting in excruciating pain, still single mindedly focused on her goal. **

**The doctor in John took hold of him immediately, pushing all thoughts of family and holidays to the side; his voice became calm and clear, formed from years of experience dealing with people at their worst.**

** "****Irene, you're in labor a full two weeks early. Nothing to worry about though, twins usually come a bit before their due date. Now tell me how far apart your contractions are, and we can figure out whether we have time to get you to a hospital." **

**Mary wisely began to herd the children into the other room.**

**"****I don't need you to to meet me at the Hospital, I have an OBGYN standing by at St. Bart's. I need you to find Sherlock, he's been avoiding me so far, John. If he's not here by the time I'm finished, I ****_will _****make him pay."**

**The line disconnected without his answer. It wasn't needed, they both knew that. John sighed, A Christmas spent chasing down Sherlock Holmes for a homicidal pregnant woman. Did the universe hate him?**

**That question was answered when he called Sherlock and informed him that Irene was in labor.**

** "****Are they Braxton Hicks contractions?"**

** "****No, Sherlock, they're real. You need to get to the hospital to help her through this."**

** "****Hmm. No. Too busy. Happy Christmas, John."**

** "****Don't you dare hang up on me, you tosser…"**

**Click. It did indeed hate him.**

**After uttering some choice obscenities about the world's most annoying consulting detective, he turned to explain the situation to Mary, only to find her handing him his keys and a travel mug of eggnog.**

** "****I don't have to go, Mary. My place is here, and I'm sure the situation will sort itself out," John said, knowing full well that it wouldn't.**

**"****John, trust me, if you don't find Sherlock, it will end badly. If you had missed our children being born, it would have been the last thing you had ever done. For Sherlock's sake, find him before Irene does."**

**"****My life does not revolve around Sherlock Holmes!"**

**"****You should really go into t-shirt design. We'd be much better off," was her parting remark as he grabbed his jacket off the rack, kissed Mary and the kids, and ran out the door.**

**John arrived at Baker Street 20 minutes later, thanks to the light holiday traffic, ready to throw Sherlock over his shoulder like he did with his two year old when he misbehaved, and ****_take_****him to the hospital (it was rather astounding how many similarities Sherlock had to a two year old sometimes), only to find him nowhere to be found.**

**What John did find was his former landlady, slightly tipsy, drinking spiked eggnog, slathering icing on singed sugar cookies. Her face lit up when she saw John, and she offered him one, which he took with trepidation.**

**"****John! How lovely to see you! Have you come along to see Sher? He's gone off chasing one of his murders, can't say when he'll be back. You're more than welcome to stay for some food though, 'til he returns," She said, sitting him down at the table, beginning to fix up a plate of turkey and cranberry sauce; the smell reminded him that he had never finished his breakfast that morning, and he took the food eagerly.**

**"****Do you know where Sherlock is exactly! Irene has gone into labor and I need to find him," He asked between bites.**

**"****I don't know much. He ran out of here as usual, yelling something about a bank heist done from the inside out." **

**John nodded as he chewed, he had heard about that on the news lately, a crew had stolen 6 million dollars from a vault, escaping from the ****_inside _****out. The bank was in the financial district, he could get there in less than 20 minutes if the traffic stayed the way it was, it seemed like things were finally looking up to be able to get home in time to see the kids open up their gifts from Santa.**

**"****I swear, if Sherlock has left that poor girl all by herself to deliver those children, I'll kill him myself! And if he thinks I'm going to be the one to raise them, he's even dafter than he seems. I am ****_**not **_****a babysitter." She said, hiccuping halfway through her rambling.**

**John stood up, relieved for an excuse to leave without having to endure more trivial details of the day to day life of his former landlady than was necessary for polite conversation. He gratefully took the go-bag of food had given him, kissed her on the cheek, and headed out the door, with a dark sense of foreboding telling him things would not be as simple as he had hoped, but when was ****_anything _****simple concerning Sherlock Holmes?**

********Author's note: ******Sorry it's taken us so long to finish the chapter, university just started back up for me and my coauthor, so updating will be a bit slower. Please be patient and bear with us!**


	4. The Mycroft Who Stole Christmas

As loathe as John was to ask favors from Mycroft Holmes, and knowing full well it would infuriate Sherlock, he knew that Sherlock was so multi-focused and erratic during cases he was nearly impossible to find, and the older Holmes brother was his best bet to locating him in time. Over the years, the brothers had developed their own sort of game, with Sherlock locating and shucking Mycroft's GPS trackers in the most imaginative ways he could think of, and Mycroft showing him up and proving that there was still one left, _obviously, _if Sherlock could actually "use his brain and find it".

So off to Diogenes Club John went, on a snowy, supposed-to-be-with-his-family, Christmas morning to make a deal with the proverbial Devil.

John stood inside the ever silent room, nearly empty today, looking up into the camera, knowing that Mycroft could see him, wherever he was.

"Mycroft, we need to talk, it's about Sherlock."

Silence. Starting to feel a bit silly talking to an inanimate object without a response, and angry that this was what his life had become, on today of all days, his voice rose.

"Mycroft, if you don't answer me in the next minute, I swear to God, I will start busting up your precious little club. I'm willing to bet that more than a few of these fine constituents are your direct superiors, and it would be a real pain in the ass to have one of your brother's friends harassing your bosses. That, or I could just kick the door in. That works too."

The people reading their papers around the fire seemed to finally take note of John warily, and no more than 30 seconds later, a door opened and the customary security team escorted him into Mycroft's office, where the older Holmes brother sat, eyeing him like a particularly irritating species of insect.

"John, pleasant to see you. Happy Christmas, or whatever it is that they say. What can I do for you today?" he drawled with his customary faux pleasantness.

"I need you to help me find Sherlock," he answered, point-blank, deciding it was probably best to be as straightforward as possible with Mycroft. John had longed since learned that trying to hide things from the 'low level government man' was an exercise in futility.

"And _why_ would I know where my idiot brother is? I'm not his keeper," Mycroft said, with his customary snark, apparently deciding to play innocent.

Unfortunately, John was in no mood to play his game; he could feel the time meant for his family slipping between his fingers in every moment he was not with them. John pulled himself up to his full, if diminutive, height, and met Mycroft's eyes with steely resolve.

"Let's not pretend you don't know Sherlock's location at any given moment, Mycroft. I really don't have to time to play along with this stupid little feud of yours, and neither does Sherlock. Irene's gone into labor, and if he's not there by the time she delivers, I can't say what she might do."

Mycroft raised a single eyebrow, showing no outward sign of worry for his only brother, and met John's fierce glare with a derisive laugh.

"What reason do I have to help my brother out of a situation he knowingly made for himself? I warned him about this idiotic enterprise, but as always, he ran headfirst into something he was unprepared for. Children are nothing but a nuisance, and should be left to the rabble. As soon as the little parasites are born, even the greatest minds will lose focus and be distracted from what is of real importance in this world. As far as I'm concerned, Sherlock can clean up his own messes from now on."

John looked across the desk at Mycroft with indignant disbelief. He had never seen him like this before, he was usually logical to the enth degree, or at least liked to pretend to be. But now, his feelings were showing plainly on his face, the same petulant expression John always saw on his son when he hadn't gotten what he wanted.

"Mycroft, I don't know what your problem is, and honestly, I couldn't give a shit. You and Sherlock have been fighting like children ever since you found out about the babies, and it needs to stop now."

"They are not people, they are parasites." Mycroft interrupted sharply.

"What?"

"They're not 'babies', they're parasites. Everyone is acting like this is such a lovely thing to have happened, but once they are born, they will consume all of my brother's time, energy, and talent, until he's become one of them." he answered bitterly.

"One of _who_?" John asked, utterly baffled, as always when it came to dealing with the thought process of the either of the Holmses.

"A goldfish. A regular person." Mycroft said, so quietly, John had to strain to hear it.

John rolled his eyes in disbelief; for two people with genius level intellect, the Holmes brothers acted just like 3 year olds most of the time; it was really no wonder he had adapted to fatherhood as quickly as he had. Adopting a much softer tone, John stowed his irritation, deciding to adopt a different approach.

"Mycroft, if you think _anything _can make Sherlock Holmes normal, then you're not nearly as smart as you pretend to be. Becoming a father is going to stop him from solving murders or getting himself into trouble, it'll just give him two more people to get himself out of it for."

"You're not losing your brother Mycroft, you're just gaining two more pains in your arse," John finished, expecting some indication of relief or assuagement from the older Holmes brother after his comforting speech.

But instead, looked up to find Mycroft working on his computer, apparently ignoring him entirely.

"Did you get that speech from one of those maudlin soap shows you people are so fond of watching? Entirely insipid if you ask me," Mycroft taunted lazily, scribbling on a scrap of paper, and sliding it over to him. On it was written the address to a bank in East London, not far from where he was. He could get there in another 15 minutes easily, John thought triumphantly, finally something was going his way!

"There you are, you have what you came for, now go pester someone else," Mycroft said, indicating where the door was with his hand, returning to his work.

"I'd recommend getting to him before the assassins do, my information tells me they should be closing in on him within the hour. And John? Nobody is my superior, do remember that." Mycroft said clearly, his last words accompanied by a cold stare.

"I'm making a mental note of it now." John snarked sarcastically, absentmindedly heading for the door, when the first part of his sentence finally registered in his mind.

"Wait, what do you mean ASSASSINS!"

**Author's Note:** Sorry guys, I know its been a while since we updated the story, but we've both been swamped with classes. Luckily, we should be able to write a bit more over Thanksgiving break, so we should be posting again in November.


	5. John Gets Deja-Vu

There were many things John had learned to expect from Irene Adler in the time he had known her; the sarcastic wit, the lack of personal boundaries, the occasional poisoning. But this was a new low for even her, John thought as he frantically punched the number for Irene's room at St. Barts into his phone. After what seemed like an eternity of droning ringing noises, the Woman's voice finally came over the line.

"Hullo, John. Have you found Sherlock yet? I do hope so, the doctors tell me I'm almost ready to deliver," she said in the happy, overly bright tone only used by those under the effects of heavy medication, or just preceding acts of murder, or in Irene's case, probably both.

"Did you hire assassins to kill Sherlock?" John said, clearly and concisely, trying desperately not to lose his temper like he did with Sherlock. He had long since learned that getting angry with Irene didn't do him any good at all; she used emotions like whips, using their irrationality to play with her victims until the she got what she wanted out of them, leaving them broken and beaten in the process. Nothing but emotionless rationality could get through to her and John knew it, that that's why she and Sherlock got on so well.

"Don't be ridiculous, John. I didn't hire them to kill him," Irene said, with a girlish giggle entirely foreign to the Woman. Just as John was breathing a sigh of relief, thinking Mycroft must have been messing with him again, he heard her laugh again, and continue.

"No, no, no. I hired them to bring him here. I planned for every eventuality months in advance, including this one. Their orders are to kill him only if he doesn't show up by the time our children are born."

"Irene, if you have a crew of bloody assassins on his trail, then why did you call me out here ON CHRISTMAS to find him?!" He yelled into the phone. Sherlock and Irene were a bloody pair, weren't they, John thought vitriolically.

They deserved each other, and he had half a mind to leave them well enough alone and allow them to figure out themselves. After all, Sherlock was the one who decided he wanted to have kids with a psychopathic dominatrix. He knew who she was when he got himself into this mess; and how like Sherlock to make huge decisions like this on his own, leaving him to clean up the mess when the great bloody git didn't follow through.

But still; John remembered how scared he had been before Henry was born, how unprepared for parenthood he felt. He couldn't blame Sherlock over much for coping the only way he knew how. After a long pause, Irene spoke again,

"They've hit a bit of a… problem," She said. Even over the phone John could hear the purse in her lip.

"You mean Sherlock."

"They followed him to Hyde Park about 3 hours ago, and were moving in, but he called in a fake bomb threat and got them all arrested. By the time they were able to escape police custody, they had lost his trail."

After a long period of silence, she continued

"For some reason, Sherlock has an inexplicable fondness for you. If anyone can find him, it's you."

Slightly stunned by Irene's sudden vote of confidence, (the drugs at St. Barts must have been much stronger than he thought)he sighed and decided to give her a break, after all she was coping with this situation the best way she knew how as well.

"Well, since I don't have anything _else _going on today, let me just go sort that out for you." He snarked. Just because he was going to help her, didn't mean he was going to like it and it didn't mean he wasn't going to give both of them hell once this was over.

"Oh would you? Thank you so much darling. I see why Sherlock is so _keen _on you."

"Irene, for the last time, no one is _keen _on anyone, I'M MARRIED!"

But she was gone. John kicked at the nearest snow pile, cursed at the sky and his own cursed loyalty, and then hailed the nearest taxi.

The Bank of Scotland was a large building covered from top to bottom in glass, reaching so high into the sky above London, you could see most of the city from the top floor. John had been impressed the first time they had visited this place, when Sherlock had solved the case of the Blind Banker here, but now it just made him feel tired. It had only been a five minute journey, but still it rankled John to spend taxi fare on Sherlock Holmes once again. He really needed to start a fund for these things. The chasing-after-Sherlock-on-a-hairbrained

-adventure fund. Greg would definitely chip in. They could have a walk-a-thon. Make Sherlock ride a bloody bicycle, he would.

With the walk of an annoyed soldier, John set in. As he walked through the polished, metallic lobby, he thought about how strange it was that Sherlock would return here. He almost never took two cases at the same place if he could. Liked to keep his atmosphere 'uncluttered' as he put it. Having lived with him, John could attest to the fact that he didn't like dealing with the same people more than once, and more often than not, the feeling was mutual.

As John approached the police barrier just outside the vault, he saw a young looking policeman on patrol. He internally swore and chided himself; he had forgotten this wasn't Lestrade's territory, no one would recognize him, let alone let him into an active crime scene. He quickly racked his brain for ideas. The officer looked like a new recruit, and John might be able to fool him. A minute later, he walked up to the crime scene line as confidently as possible, looking the officer in the eyes as he was brusquely asked who he was.

"I'm a forensic specialist, here to examine the crime scene." John responded evenly,

"Let me see your badge," the officer said, holding out his hand impatiently.

John pretended to search his pockets, trying his best to look the part of the befuddled scientist with his head in the clouds. His years with Sherlock had made him an expert in lying and assuming false identities, with how often they had to do it to get information on their cases.

"Bollocks, I think I left them back at the station. I won't be a minute though, just verifying data."

The officer shook his head, eyeing John suspiciously, and his heart sank. If he got booked because of Sherlock Holmes, again, it might actually make a murderer of him.

"No badge, no access, those are the rules. What's the number of your precinct?"

Just as John was considering a mad dash for the exit, he heard a very familiar voice behind him.

"He's with me."

Sherlock ducked under the rope in a quick, fluid motion, and John followed him, ignoring the baleful stare of the policeman. As they walked toward the vault, Sherlock shot him a sideways glance, and smirked. But John could tell there was tension there; in his fidgety, mechanical movements, and the small facial ticks, lurking behind the ever present insulting ease.

"Did you _really _think that would work?"

"Well I had to try something, didn't I? They weren't going to let some random civilian into a crime scene were they?"

"They let me in here."

"You are not a random civilian." John countered. Sherlock smiled, finally turning to face him.

"Come to assist me, Dr. Watson?"

"No, I'm here to bring to the hospital so that Irene doesn't kill you." Sherlock's face went abruptly cold and controlled as he turned away, his blue eyes turning to ice, and began walking again, sighing in annoyance. John followed close behind doggedly, determined to reach his friend.

"What a waste, a perfectly good assistant like yourself, reduced to Irene's errand boy. Like I said on the phone, John. My work here is far too important, I couldn't possibly leave now." his friend said impatiently, gesticulating to demonstrate his point, as he always did when he was anxious.

"You know she has assassins after you?!" John shot at him, hackles raised by his insult. Sherlock rolled his eyes and snorted, only angering John even more.

"Those pests? Yes, I already took care of them. Lost them in a matter of minutes, and they called themselves professionals! The Woman really didn't get her money's worth with that bunch," Sherlock said, laughing derisively.

John stopped dead in his tracks, catching Sherlock as he tried to keep walking, and turned him forcibly to face him.

"Did you ever think about why she tried to send assassins after you, Sher? You're going to be a father, you need to step up." he said softly. Yelling at Sherlock got you exactly nowhere; he would either disassemble your argument with logical deduction, or simply ignore you completely, continuing on with what he was already doing. The key to getting through to Sherlock was finesse; you had to be strong enough to hold your own in an argument with the world's smartest detective, but gentle enough to keep him off the defensive. At times like this, John really wished his wife were here, she was infinitely better at this than him. With a few words, she could make Sherlock see what an hour of shouting could not.

Sherlock looked down at the ground for a moment, then back up to meet the eyes of his oldest, and if he were being honest, only friend in the world. With an almost imperceptible tremor in his voice, said,

"Like I told you. I can't leave until this is finished, John."

John met his eyes straight on, and sighed in understanding. How did the saying go? "If you can't beat them, join them?". If Sherlock wouldn't see sense, maybe solving this case would straighten out his priorities some. John smiled up at Sherlock resignedly,

"Well then, we should get started."


	6. The Christmas Episode

**Authors Note:** Sorry for the delay, we wanted to publish the next chapter by Christmas, but unexpected family issues kept us away from writing. We still wanted to give you a new chapter though, so we decided to post this bonus chapter, lets call it a christmas episode, to give us some time to catch up, and to introduce you to the twins. We should post the next chapter in another couple weeks, so please be patient with us!

"Father! You need to be here to titrate!"

The dark haired girl looked up at her father from the kitchen table, currently covered with lab equipment and vials filled with liquids of various colours, fixing her large blue eyes on him intently. At four years old Alexandria was unusually small for her age, a fact only highlighted by the comically oversized apron she wore over her sundress, and was every bit her father's daughter, much to John's dismay.

"Isn't that what I had children for Alexandria? To titrate?" Sherlock responded, as he finally emerged from his bedroom well after noon, dressed in his usual robe and irritable as ever. He had just finished a particularly grueling case during which he had not slept for nearly 72 hours, and had only returned from late the night before.

"Remember what Lestrade said the last time he caught Hamy and me using the Bunsen burner without supervision? He said he'd have to report you!"

"Hamy and _I_. No daughter of mine will misuse her grammar like that."

"I _will_ call John."

"It's not my fault your last experiment went up in flames, I taught you the proper procedure."

"It bloody well- Oh! Hello Uncle Mycroft."

Alexandria looked up at her uncle, who stood in the living room of the flat, silently sizing up the health of the children in a matter of seconds, then fixing his eyes on his brother with disdain.

"Sherlock, must we have another discussion regarding your language around the children?"

"I don't care what they say, as long as they say it properly." Sherlock retorted, greeting him with an icy glare, irked by the very unwelcome appearance of his older brother. Stalking to the door, he slammed it open,

"MRS. HUDSON! Didn't I tell you not to let Mycroft walk into the flat anymore? DO YOUR JOB!" He yelled down the hallway, slamming it shut again over the sound of her response that she was 'not his housekeeper, and it was not her job to manage the comings and goings of his home.' along with a few other choice words.

"I wouldn't need to let myself into the flat, if you would answer the door, little brother." Mycroft said coolly.

In response, Sherlock stalked into the kitchen melodramatically, muttering under his breath about how 'he should take that as a hint that he wasn't welcome' as he poured himself a cup of tea, angrily taking the sugar out of its place in the cupboard next to the jar of human eyes.

Roused by the arrival of his favourite Uncle, Hamish finally looked up from his book to greet Mycroft with a nod before returning to his reading. With dark auburn hair and eternally pensive green eyes, the boy already had the look of a serious professor, and the thoughtful nature to go along with it. While his twin always seemed to be be moving from one interest to another, never resting in one place for long, it was rare to see Hamish move from his chair, especially while in the middle of a good book.

Mycroft turned back to face the children, giving his best approximation of a friendly smile, which had all the authenticity of a cat barking.

"Hello, Alexandria. Hamish. How is your schooling progressing?"

"I'm sure you know better than I do Uncle. So why do you continue to ask?" She replied, head cocked, staring intently at her uncle. For a four year old, she was uncannily perceptive. Too like his brother for Mycroft's comfort, they both had an ability to get under his skin and reveal his underbelly, a talent possessed by a precious few.  
"It's important not only to gain pertinent outsider information, but the perception of the subject at hand when dealing with a live subject."

"Noted." she said, nodding seriously.

He leaned in and said in a slightly more mischievous tone,

"And if you don't keep your grades up, the East wind will come and take you away."

"MYCROFT, STOP YOUR PERNICIOUS BABBLING AND GET IN HERE!"

"Why, Brother Mine, you seem vexed." Mycroft said with false sincerity, strolling into the kitchen with an evil grin.

"Have you tried getting them to sleep at night? Doubtful, so please don't make our lives any harder. Dreams of monsters and being forced through tea with Mrs. Hudson already keep them up at night."

Alexandria crept up behind her father, and peered up at him with frightened eyes, as Mycroft began to examine the flat with an unhappy gleam in his eye.

"Father, is that true?" She whispered, unwilling to let Mycroft hear, as Sherlock began playing Yankee Doodle Dandy to rush his brother out the door. Just as quietly, Sherlock replied;

"Mycroft always lies."

The smile returned her little face immediately, the worry leaving her eyes like clouds after a storm. As far as Alexandria Mary Holmes was concerned, her father's word was the last, and only word that mattered in the world.  
"Okay." she said, as she crept back to her titration.

As Mycroft huffed his way out, Sherlock reclined back in his chair, deep in thought.

_Hmmm. _Sherlock thought as he slumped into his chair. He really must ask John about these heart palpitations recently. They really were becoming quite troublesome.


	7. Shall We Begin?

**Authors Note**

Sorry it's taken me so long to get this out, this semester has been crazy. Once May rolls around, and school wraps up, we should be able to write some more. Thanks for your patience, and please don't be afraid to comment and tell us what you think of the new material!

"The first and most important element in this case is not how the perpetrators got _out _of the vault, but rather, how they got _in_."

The duo stood inside of the massive bank vault, examining the emptied safety deposit boxes, and the wide open space where 6 million had once been.

"From a cursory glance, there are 6… make that 3, possible scenarios that fit the evidence currently in front of us." Sherlock continued in the rushed tone he used when he was thinking through a difficult problem; as he began slowly walking around the vault, his keen eyes scanning the area for the hints only he could see, occasionally murmuring things to himself that made no sense to anyone outside his head. John however, was still completely baffled as to what they were looking at. He had seen the headlines of a bank robbery plastered all over the newspaper and telly, but he had been so caught up with the Christmas preparations he had totally ignored it. So now, here he was, completely in the dark next to Sherlock's all seeing brilliance. Nothing had changed there.

As Sherlock surveyed the crime scene, the Detective Inspector in charge of the case came up beside John, scowling at the new addition to the case. He was a young man for his post, in his early thirties, in a wrinkled suit he had obviously slept in, looking tired and no more happy than John was to be here on Christmas.

"Your partner had better be as good as everyone says he is. My superiors will have my head if I let a civilian in here without anything to show for it." He said, frowning down at John, but holding his hand out to shake nonetheless.

"He is. Sherlock is the best there is. The only one there is, actually." John said, gesturing to his friend, who was still completely oblivious to their presence.

"So what exactly happened here?" John said, happy he could ask someone besides Sherlock for information. Had he asked, Sherlock would have treated him to a look of incredulity, asking him why he could not see for himself from the evidence all around him, making him feel small and like punching him in the face, all at the same time.

"Late last night, a security guard heard noises coming from inside the vault. He alerted bank personnel, and when they got someone in to check it out, they found this. Third one this week, and the last thing the banks want during Christmas season. Folks are panicking, pulling their money out of the banks, which is the last things the economy needs right now. The department is starting to get desperate. They need to catch this one, and they don't much care how they do it. Which would be why you're friend here got an invite to the party." the detective said, gesturing to Sherlock, still hard at work, then continued.

"The bank vault never opened or closed after bank hours, and there are no signs of drilling, so unless the thief could walk through walls, there's no proper explanation for this."

"WRONG."

Sherlock said, without even looking up from his in-depth exploration of a particularly foul smelling stain on the floor.

He stood, finally finished with his clue-finding expedition, and strode over to them, looking at the detective inspector as if _he _were a particularly foul smelling stain. However, unlike the detective, Sherlock had actually interested in the stain for a moment.

"There is a logical answer to every problem, detective inspector, if one is only clever enough to see it. The perpetrator didn't travel through the walls, he came in through the air ducts, obviously."

The detective inspector shook his head, laughing in disbelief at Sherlock's words, as if he were listening to a mental patient. In most other aspects of Sherlock's life, he wouldn't be far off the mark, but in his work Sherlock was seldom incorrect. An oblivious arsehole at times, but not wrong.

"That's impossible, they're too small for a person to fit into. I let you in here because Detective Inspector Lestrade vouched for you, but if you don't start giving me some real information instead of these ridiculous conspiracy theories…"

"It's too small for an _adult _person to fit into. Even you can figure that part out

John sighed internally to himself, as the detective began yelling at Sherlock. Not 10 minutes into the case, and Sherlock had already managed to piss off the lead detective of their case. Well, with any luck, he thought, maybe they'd get thrown off the case and he could get Sherlock to the hospital. Not that getting thrown off a case had ever stopped Sherlock before. A far more likely scenario involved crawling in through windows and sewers, and ended with him being charged with a crime, but one could always hope for the best.

John looked up as the Detective Inspector stormed out of the room in a fury, yelling to his men, no doubt to have them removed from the crime scene. He walked quickly over to Sherlock, who was oblivious to their precarious situation, observing the room once more.

"We should probably get out of here, before the nice detective decides to arrest us." John said, as he grabbed Sherlock by the arm and began dragging him from the room. Finally noticing him, he realized the trouble they were in, nodded his head in agreement, and matched his speed as they quietly slipped out onto the quiet city streets.

The snow was falling in large flakes as they walked hurriedly away from the bank, walking together in silence. John walked quietly, considering what he could possibly say to deter Sherlock from this ridiculous case, and keep him from his certain death at the hands of Irene. After a few blocks, Sherlock turned to John, with the excited gleam in his eye that he always had while he was on a case.

"Well now, shall we begin?"

"No Sherlock, let's not. Lets go to the hospital see Irene, and then in a few days, after Christmas is over, _then _we can begin." John said, mimicking his dramatic, drawn-out drawl on the last word, grabbing his arm to stop him in his tracks. Sherlock only responded with a look, he really didn't need much more than that. A simple raise of the eyebrow, furrowing of the lips, and he could effortlessly convey what took others long streams of complicated words.

His current look told John he thought him a complete idiot. And not the endearing kind he usually was. Then after a moment, his face cleared, and he moved on, his mind going back to the familiar. The cases, always back to the cases. They were his safety blanket, his bridge connecting him to the rest of society. The cases were the only time he could finally breath, and laugh, and live. Normality stifled Sherlock, it was the extraordinary that awakened his passion, and allowed him to feel the things everyone else took for granted everyday.

"Once you have eliminated the impossible solutions, the ones left, no matter how improbable, must be the truth." Sherlock said, as he began his leisurely stroll that he always used when walking beside his vertically challenged friend.

"So what is the truth, then?" John said sighing, as he resigned himself to a slow death at the hands of Irene Adler, and matched his partners pace.


	8. The Russian Encounter

"A child? You're telling me our culprit is a _child_?" John asked incredulously as they sat at the only cafe open on Christmas, warming up with a hot cuppa and planning their next move.

"I said our culprit is a small human, _possibly_ a child," Sherlock corrected while nonchalantly sipping his tea, then continued.

"It's the only possible explanation for how they could get in and out through the air duct without opening the safe. The ducts were specially made to be too small for an adult to fit through, but they didn't take into account anyone smaller than that. Children are so often overlooked by adults."

Ironic, coming from a man who was currently overlooking his own, John thought.

"It would also explain the tracks I found in the vault. Small, too small to belong to an adult. At first I thought perhaps a trained monkey, but there was no evidence of hair or droppings at the scene. The weight dispersion in the marks ruled that out ultimately, leaving lighter patterns in the middle, where the arch of the foot would be, rather than monkeys, whose podiatry is entirely different… " Sherlock explained, no longer to John, but to himself as he became engrossed in his deductions.

Confused by his statement, John leaned forward, interrupting his partner's train of thought.

"Tracks? The detective inspector told me they didn't find any tracks in the room besides normal foot traffik throughout the day."

"And if we left crimes up to the _police_, how many criminals would walk free today? They missed something, they always miss _something_," Sherlock scoffed, his breath fogging in the cold winter air. "The clues are not where residue was left, but rather, where residue was _not_ left," he continued, as if what he was saying made perfect sense.

"Sherlock, I know you think you're being obvious, but you're not. I have no patience to play along today, so why don't you explain that again in a way that I can understand," John said, rubbing his temples.

Sherlock looked aggrieved, but never the less, obliged his only friend, and began again.

"This thief was clever. Clever enough to break into a bank vault. You really think he would be sloppy enough to leave tracks?" Sherlock said sharply, annoyed at having to explain while on his crime solving high.

"So they used socks, or those overshoes that they give us at crime scenes. But those don't leave tracks, do they?" John queried, beginning to get curious about their case himself, sternly reminding himself that he was here to bring Sherlock in, not relive the past. His days of running around the town, solving crimes were behind him, as they should be. As they should be.

"Precisely, Watson. They don't, not when they are used on clean surfaces in any case. But that vault has dozens of people through it every day, and is only cleaned weekly. There was dirt and residue all over that floor, which the cloth from the booties then picked up as they were walking across the floor," he finished excitedly, with a dramatic flourish to emphasize his point.

"So, you're saying that rather than looking for where there are tracks, we should be looking for where there _aren't _tracks," John said slowly, as he started to piece the complex situation together in his head. Sherlock smiled excitedly at his friend, and with a snap of his fingers, pointed at John,

"Precisely, my good Watson. Now you've got it! So, by measuring the clean spaces between the dirt, I was able to reverse engineer a shoe size for our culprit, which lead me to my current conclusion," Sherlock summarized, a bit too smugly for John's taste, as they paid for their drinks, Sherlock's drink still untouched, and got up to leave.

"Yeah, but how exactly does knowing the bank robber's shoe size help us to catch him?" John volleyed back, annoyed at his friend's boasting. Obviously prickled by this, Sherlock shrugged his shoulders and shot him a dirty look.

"The small details always factor in, _John_… I just don't have the whole picture together yet."

"More like too busy showing off in front of the new detective to actually find anything useful," John shot back, with a smirk and a chuckle.

"I do not 'show off,'" he uttered, making a face that made him look far too much like Mycroft when he found something particularly distasteful.

"Yeah, you do," John said simply, laughing to himself. Same old Sherlock, childish, ornery, and brilliant as ever. Even when the whole world around him changed, he stayed the same. It was a thought that simultaneously comforted and worried John.

Taking a breath, John prepared to make another attempt at persuading Sherlock to visit the hospital, since they wouldn't be able to accomplish anything today on the case anyways. Before he could though, he felt something sharp jab him in the back, and breath on his neck. Looking over at Sherlock, he saw his friend in the same predicament, a man in dark glasses and a black wool coat standing behind him with a gun in the small of his back.

Taking a breath, John steeled himself for whatever was coming next, and tried to calm himself as best he could.

"There's no need for the guns, we can all be gentlemen about this. Irene sent you, right? I doubt she'd want us back with holes in us (or Sherlock at least), why don't you just let us go and we can all go to the hospital together without anyone getting hurt?" he said, a bit nervously.

They were fine. They could get out of this. They'd gotten out of worse. As long as they weren't Russian, they would be fine.

"We are thinking you should be coming with us now, почемучка."

Oh, bugger.

Russian, they had to be bloody _Russian_.

Of all the criminals they had taken down, all the brutal murders they had caught, the Russian ones were always the hardest to crack, and almost impossible to beat.

As they walked down the city streets, now beginning to fill with people just out of church or on their way to family parties, John soothed himself by recalling every awful name he could think of to describe Irene Adler in order to take his mind off the hulking Russian bloke with a gun in his back.

That bloody woman. Why had he ever agreed to help either one of them? He should be at home playing with his children, not being threatened by ruthless killers. The only assassin he should be in fear of is his wife. Yet, here he was, trudging through the snow with Sherlock and a pair of Terminator knockoffs.

They stopped in front of a dark SUV, and the men behind them gestured for them to get inside. John looked at them incredulously.

"_Really_? A black SUV? Why don't you just get a white van with boarded windows and ice cream stickers, maybe that will be a little more subtle about the whole kidnapping thing," he said, rolling his eyes as they pushed him into the car forcefully.

Sherlock was quiet and pensive as they drove, the streets now lined with people, a stark difference from only 15 minutes earlier, when he had been a chatterbox. Maybe this was for the better, John supposed. Very soon they would be at the hospital, and he would be free to go back to his family. That is, if Sherlock could manage to stay quiet long enough to keep the Russians from killing them both out of sheer irritation.

As they took a sharp turn around a corner, he felt Sherlock bump into him. "In approximately 15 seconds, pull the door handle, and kick the bottom left frame of the door," he whispered, so softly John could barely hear him.

In a second, Sherlock was upright, and it was if it had never happened at all. John got into position, looking doubtfully over at his closest friend, wondering if this was the frantic design of a desperate man or the carefully calculated plan of an architect. Knowing Sherlock, it could be both. The doors were locked, he had heard the click as soon as they were thrown into the vehicle. These men were hardened professionals, not amateur kidnappers, and for both their sakes, John was hoping Sherlock wasn't underestimating them. Finally, the time came. Sherlock looked over and nodded somberly, and in the next moment, everything went to hell.

With a scream of metal and a rush of cold winter wind, the door flew off its hinges into the traffic behind, no doubt giving the family behind them, out for a nice holiday drive, a traumatic Christmas memory. He heard the Russians' surprised yells, and felt them reaching back trying to grab them. They didn't have much time. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sherlock roll himself out of the car in one fluid motion. John took a deep breath and leapt out of the car into the winter chill after his friend.

Translation Note: почемучка (počemúčka) is a person who asks a lot of questions.

(A big thanks to ShadowFox94 for editing and providing the translation notes!)

Author's Note: Sorry it took so long to get this out, summer has been crazy busy so far, and my co-writer and I are both completely snowed under (no pun intended).I'll try to get the next chapter out before September, but no promises. Until then, enjoy, and please don't be afraid to comment and tell us what you think! xoxoxox BonnySunshine

Author's Note 2:

I didn't do much at all for this chapter; that was the Bonniness. Isn't she wonderful? Working two jobs and writing this amazing story. Hope you enjoy!

-Izzybizzy333


	9. The Great Escape

The world spun like an unsteady top. For a fraction of a second he felt weightless, soaring through the air without gravity or matter, the icy wind seeming to blow straight through him, chilling him to the bone. But reality is rarely so kind as to allow the enjoyment of such a moment for too long, before gravity intercedes and forces your swift and painful reunion with the ground once more. A painfully literal example, in John Watson's case. His ears ringing, and with blood pumping loudly and painfully through his head, John stumbled to his knees with the finesse of a uni student after his first pub crawl, and forced himself to his feet. It reminded him of his time training in the army as a new recruit, practising how to jump out of air-planes. A momentary sense of freedom and wonder followed by a jarring transition into combat.

He refused to die here. He had been in a similar situation to this one,in Afghanistan. He had stoically resigned himself to death then, in that barren desert, but not now. Now he had so many reasons to live; three of them waiting at home for him, and one running beside him, and John was determined to live at least long enough to beat the shit out of that last reason for putting him through this much trouble.

As his head cleared a bit, and he regained some of his balance, John looked around and noticed his surroundings for the first time. They were in a run down part of the city, one he recognized from the occasional free clinic jobs he had worked here in the past. The buildings were mostly run down apartment buildings, cheap restaurants, corners stores, and thrift shops. Usually abuzz with activity at all times of day and night, even here, silence reigned on Christmas. Through the windows on the lower floors, John could see families in the apartments as they passed, playing games in their living rooms or busily preparing the Christmas dinner in the kitchen. He wondered about his own family, if they too were having fun, sitting down to their meal yet, if Henry was enjoying his first taste of Christmas ham. He looked behind them as they turned another corner, and breathed a sigh of relief as they saw the black car drive past them.

They wandered for a few more blocks in silence. Sherlock was preoccupied with his case, and John's mind was on considering their next move as well. As they rounded the next corner, John spotted a telephone box in front of a convenience store and started toward it. Their would be kidnappers had taken their phones and wallets from them when they put them into the car, and for a situation as complicated as this, he needed the advice of the smartest person he knew. His wife.

Grabbing Sherlock by the coat sleeve, he directed him to the phone box; when he got into his head like this, he had a tendency to keep walking and talking to John, well after John had ducked into a shop. Finding that he had just enough change to make a call was the first spot of luck the good doctor had seen all day, and he was glad of it. Punching his home number in, he waited with slight trepidation as the line rang, and breathed a sigh of relief when he heard his wife's voice answering the phone.

"Assassins? I knew Adler was a bit off, but this is just mental." Mary said after he had finished explaining the situation. She was currently distracted, bouncing the baby in one arm, hands full as she pulled Henry's jumper back on for the tenth time that day. "Well, Sherlock shouldn't have too much trouble with them, as long as they're not…"

"They're Russian." John interrupted her, as he watched Sherlock pacing back and forth on the street in front of him, narrowly avoiding being hit by the holiday drivers, and turned away. Nothing but silence on the other end of the line, save for the babbling of the baby in the background, and in his mind's eye, John could see his wife's expression of cold, tactical thoughtfulness, as she considered the problem in which he currently found himself.

"John. These are not the kind of assassins you want to tangle with. " Mary said seriously.

"As opposed to the other kind of assassin, that you invite out to brunch and home for a bit of tea?" John quipped in frustration.

"That's what you did for me." Mary shot back, her worry palpable even as she joked.

"Seriously, John. They won't stop until their mission is achieved, or someone offers them a better offer, and they won't hesitate to kill you if you get in the way. Maybe it's time to start taking more drastic measures with Sherlock. If he won't listen to reason, maybe it's time to try force." She continued darkly.

"What do you expect me to do, Mary? Knock him out and _drag_ him to the hospital? They're not going to let me dump an unconscious man in the middle of an active delivery room." John said, while entertaining the idea in his head for a moment if even just to lift his spirits.

"He's just scared, that's all. Probably doesn't even know it himself. That man wouldn't know how to deal with his own emotions if they came with manuals and a diagram. Don't you remember how nervous you were while I was having Henry?" she gently reminded him.

"Yes, but I came through alright in the end, and you weren't sending armed thugs to kill me if I missed the birth." he retorted.

"Yes, you did. And so will he, he just needs a strong talking to is all. He'll get there." she reassured him, the continued

"And Darling, if you had missed our son's birth, I wouldn't have needed thugs because I would have killed you myself." Which, strangely reassured him much less.

This reminding him of his feckless friend, he turned outside to check on Sherlock, to see nothing but an empty street. Poking his head further out of the phone-box, he scanned the area for his friend, finding nothing but a quiet, peaceful street, two things not found anywhere within 100 meters of Sherlock Holmes. His stomach dropped, and Mary's voice faded out to a distant buzz. So help him, if Sherlock had ditched him again, he bloody well would need to visit a hospital, but it wouldn't be to see Irene or anyone else. Gathering himself together, he stepped back into the booth, and held the receiver to his ear once more.

"Mary, darling, I'm going to need to call you back. I have a high functioning sociopath to hunt down like a dog." He said, hanging up the phone in a dangerous calm. He walked down the street a ways, trying his best to ignore the gazes of the people out with their families, pitying the man walking all alone on Christmas. As he began scanning the two way street, looking for any sign of Sherlock's presence, an older woman also walking on her own, stopped him.

"Your boyfriend went that way, dear." she said, pointing in the direction of a line of shops. John instinctively began to correct her, then thought better of it. After all, she was helping him, and it was Christmas. Besides, it was nothing he hadn't heard from his actual wife many times before.

"Stopped right in his tracks, then ran off like a hunted fox. Hopped in a cab, drove right off. Disappeared in a terrible hurry, if you ask me."

Thanking her for her help, and wishing her a happy holiday, John hurried in the direction the woman had pointed, and hailed a cab of his own, despite having no direction in which to go.

After a moment of thought, and several choice words for Sherlock, John decided the best choice of action would be heading to the police station. If Sherlock had indeed solved the case, as it seemed he had, that would be the first place he would go. If there were two things Sherlock loved more being right, it was being right in front of an audience. So onto Scotland Yard he went, cursing all the way, in very poor Christmas spirits to say the least.

Author's Note: We finally got another chapter out again! YAY! Due to our hectic schedule, and the fact that we are in completely different time zones (I am currently studying abroad), our work on the story will most likely be slow. We still plan to keep writing as much as possible, and hope to be back on a regular schedule soon!


End file.
